


He Knows It's All Worthwhile

by sleepyMoritz (Catherss)



Series: Just After the Mid-Century [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greasers, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Class Differences, Glam Rock, Growing Up, High School, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mods and Rockers, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rock and Roll, Rockers Are British Greasers So I Will Also Tag, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 06:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19351273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherss/pseuds/sleepyMoritz
Summary: A red-head teenager wearing a leather jacket and Levi's shows up on the doorstep to Aziraphale's parent's house and asks him if he has any speed. Thus kicks off a six year long exercise in latent homosexual longing.Or: being young and queer isn't easy. Especially when it's the late 1960s.





	He Knows It's All Worthwhile

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always to Pogopop for beta reading and being an enabler.
> 
> There isn't any overt homophobia in this fic - it's more about the ways in which homophobia is absorbed. I've also never read the books, so... sorry about that.
> 
> Title from Bowie's Starman, of course.

 

Aziraphale was lounging comfortably in his father's office, half leaning in the nook on the window, half stretched out onto the chair that supported his feet, a book cradled in his warm hand and a pencil loosely gripped in the other. It was an idyllic time for reading; no more homework, nothing else to do today except eat dinner - in all, no more obligations.

Until of course there was a booming from downstairs as someone pounded their knuckles on the front door. He jumped to the extent that his book flew from his hands. He scrambled to pick it up, as though someone might have spotted the mishap, and felt very embarrassed anyway.

By the time he'd recovered the novel, the front door had been opened, and Aziraphale could hear the bass of voices from downstairs. He peered through the window and spotted a gleaming motorbike parked on the pavement outside.

"Tis some visitor," he murmured, dramatically. "Only this and nothing more."

Then, from downstairs, his mother's voice: "Zira! It's for you!"

He put down his book on the side, feeling very flustered and irritated, pulling down his waistcoat and scrambling up. By the time he was halfway down the stairs, he could see the strange person more clearly. A skinny teenager with a slick ginger quiff, wearing a black leather jacket and cuffed jeans, who Aziraphale recognised from around and about.

"Hello?"

"Hi," the boy said, almost shyly, which was odd, because it wasn't like Aziraphale had come round to _his_. The two looked at each other, not exactly knowing what to say, for though they'd seen each other around - a lot - they'd never actually spoken. So the moment stretched on for a little while longer, but they both allowed it to. Whenever Aziraphale had seen him in the street, he'd always been compelled by a red-hot twist inside his chest to look away, though all he really wanted to do was this: stare.

Then Aziraphale's mother bustled off back to the kitchen, and the boy seemed to gather himself and said, "I need something."

Aziraphale approached the doorway a little timidly, because he'd heard all about _rockers_ and _those sorts_ , and knew that this boy was one of them. Still, he was enraptured by the sudden appearance of one at the door, and he was, as he said, often up for shenanigans, so long as they were of an innocent and playful sort where everyone could get a laugh out of it. "Yes?"

The boy leaned in conspiritally. "Purple hearts."

Aziraphale stared at him blankly.

"French blues?"

He shrugged helplessly.

"Dexys?"

Clearly growing frustrated at Aziraphale's complete ignorance, he leaned in further and whispered:

"Speed."

Aziraphale bolted upright, throwing a glance over his shoulder as he hustled the protesting rocker out the door. "I say--"

"Hey, hey, hey, careful with the jacket, careful--"

"I don't have any such--" Aziraphale swallowed, closed the door behind them, and threw his hands up. "Well actually, I'm quite lost as to why you'd think I'd have something like that in the first place!"

"Well, you're a mod, aren't you? Mods do drugs, you're a mod, ergo..." he did a mock balancing scale gesture. "Thought I'd ask you."

"A mod?" Aziraphale repeated. "Why on _earth_ would you think that? And who even _are_ you?"

"Crowley Anthony. I'm on Newcastle Lane."

"Crowley Anthony... as in, Bond, James Bond?"

"No, as in call me Crowley, because Anthony is my surname."

Aziraphale blinked. "Your parents named you the wrong way round."

"Y-- w-- yes. Yeah, they had-- other, very important things on their mind, point is," Crowley rambled, waving his hand, which he seemed to do a lot, and rarely seemed to be properly still, a certain movement to him that was bright and enticing. "You don't have speed, then?"

"No!"

Crowley scoffed. "What kind of a mod are you? Where's your scooter?"

"I'm _not_ a mod!"

That did make him stop. "But-- you-- but you're wearing a suit."

"I know," Aziraphale said, which was the first time in the conversation he could say for sure he'd really known what either of them was going on about. "It's very fashionable."

Crowley stared at him incredulously. "It's _mod_ fashion."

"It's my dad's," Aziraphale said, quite pleased, brushing the lapels down. "I think some of the boys are rather taking after me."

"Oh my God," Crowley muttered. "And you don't know any mods?"

"No, absolutely not! I'll have nothing to do with any of those _youths_ , thank you very much." He was aware that he too was a youth, but he got called things like ‘nice young man’ by the ladies at church, not ‘troublemaker lout’.

"Right," Crowley said, and half turned back towards his bike, which Aziraphale was very suddenly against, even though the intrusion on his reading had been very irritating.

"What do you want that stuff for, anyway?" he asked, which was the first thing that came to his head.

Crowley side-eyed him. "Your dad isn't a copper or nothing?"

"No. He's a horologist."

"H--?"

"Clockmaker."

"Fancy. How you have this big house, I suppose," Crowley said, and then Aziraphale realised that he'd seen the other boy duck his way into one of the terrace houses with overgrown gardens and dirty windows a cul-de-sac or two over. "Me and some boys - and girls too, actually," he added, obviously pleased with himself, "are going to have a bit of a bender."

"I see."

"Lots of booze."

"Yes, I imagine."

"And music."

"Hm."

"Did I mention the girls?"

"You mentioned the girls, yes."

Crowley nodded. "Well, there'll be lots of dancing, and--"

"Dancing?" Aziraphale asked. "Really?"

Crowley noted Aziraphale's excitement with a raised eyebrow, and Aziraphale immediately attempted to tone it down, tucking his hands behind his back and ducking his head to his chest for a moment. "Yeah."

"Well. That's very good, then."

Crowley shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and scuffed his feet. "You could come, I suppose. If you're really not a mod."

Aziraphale flushed and shook his head. "Oh, oh no. I should think not."

"Not really your scene, I guess."

"Not at all." He rocked on his feet, then said, "But if I wanted to go, where would this be happening?"

"On Saturday, at Reggie's house on Oldham street. You'll know which one we are." Crowley shrugged his skinny shoulders. "And if you were to come, don't wear-- that."

"What's wrong with this?" Aziraphale whined, offended.

"Nothing if you want a chinning." Crowley took his hands out of his pockets, this time full of a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, deft fingers handling them playfully.

"What should I wear, then?"

"A t-shirt," he said, voice slightly muffled by the cig between his lips. Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley began sauntering his way down his garden path, having apparently deemed the conversation to be over. He looked down at the ground, rather than look at that boy's legs.

"What about trousers?"

"Jeans. Levi's, if you got 'em, and roll up a cuff." Crowley straddled his bike, turning a last glance up to Aziraphale, who felt stuck to the spot. "It’d have to do."

  


* * *

 

 

Crowley was well on his way to a really fantastic buzz when he spotted the awkward, endearing boy he'd mistakenly called on earlier that week hovering in the corner. But the truth of it was that he'd seen the boy around since as long as he could remember, tugging at his mum's skirts, or books pressed to his chest. Crowley'd always had a fascination with him, in the same way he had a fascination with other people who liked to think they were good, forigen concept as it was, and the opportunity to call round couldn't be passed up.

"Zira!" he called across the room.

The boy startled. "It's _Aziraphale_."

"Is it? Your mum called you Zira." Crowley sauntered up close. Of course he knew his real name. He was just winding him up.

Aziraphale's dark eyes flittered down. "Well, that's what my mum calls me, yes."

Crowley hummed, pleased. "You wore what I said you should! Want a beer? We have ciders, too. Lagers."

"I don't know," Aziraphale said, looking pretty stressed out. It was funny, in an endearing way. "What's good?"

"Well, they're all cheap, so nothing, but I'm on the ciders."

"Then a cider. Did you... did you find the..."

"Speed?" The boy nodded, looking around, almost scared of the other people stuffed into the hot house, music as loud as the speakers could handle and then some. Honestly, it was something of a miracle they hadn't been shut down yet, but apparently the rocker gods were smiling down on them tonight. "No, no such luck. Probably for the better, really, some of these lot aren't really... well, a-okay, with drugs."

"Really?"

"More of a mod thing," he said, throwing his arm around Aziraphale's shoulders. "Let's get you a drink!"

Crowley hunted down the last of the ciders, and then Crowley found his mates to introduce to Aziraphale - who, to be fair on him, could be a real charmer when he wanted, in that old fashioned way that he could tell Beezle especially was more confused than flattered by. He also introduced him to Reggie, their host for the night, a twenty-three-odd lad who for reasons no one really wanted to examine didn't mind hanging out with kids who hadn’t even made it to lower sixth. And they talked about life and school and didn't run out of things to say. Crowley didn't want the night to end.

"I'm at the grammar," Aziraphale explained, a pink flush on his skin now, and this must be the _weirdest_ attraction Crowley had ever felt. Crowley was all fast riding and aiming for a ton and living outside the Establishment, not books and doing well in school. There was something fun in that, though, seeing to what degree it was true that opposites attract.

"I used to go there."

"You did?"

"Yeah--

“I don’t remember you!”

“I’m in the year above, I think. Got kicked out - hung around the wrong people. I'm a-- an apprentice mechanic, actually. But... I wanna be a rock'n'roll musician, like Tommy Steele."

"You play?"

"Guitar."

"How fascinating," Aziraphale said, quite sincerely. "I used to have celeste lessons but I got bored."

"You can't get bored of music!" Crowley said, mostly because he didn't know what the fuck a celeste was.

Aziraphale laughed, throwing his head back. "No! I just... well, I don't know, actually. I did enjoy it, but it feels like I'm always preparing for exams, every January." His expression became unexpectedly solemn, as if he was talking to someone younger than him, not in a bad way, but in a _I want to impart advice to you_ kind of way. "It always creeps up on you and I like to be prepared."

"Better be kicked out and be done with exams," Crowley said. "That's what I did."

Aziraphale snorted. "Yes, well. And you're alright."

"I'm alright." The snort became a chuckle. "I'm alright!"

Aziraphale was laughing properly now. "Yes, you are."

"I am!" Crowley said, waving a cider at him. "I'm always alright."

Aziraphale's eyes met his for a moment, full of meaning that Crowley couldn't discern, and he realised he was staring, but so was the other one, and if they were both doing it, then it was fine-- it was something else, and they both knew what he thought. Yeah, they both knew what, and in the same way that he could sense when someone liked him or didn't, he could just feel a bit of bent in Aziraphale, and he thrilled in having a suspicion confirmed. Then Aziraphale turned away again, clearly embarrassed and clasping his hands, leaving Crowley looking at his hair curling up at his ears and the curve of his nose.

Hmm.

Crowley waved at Reggie to get his attention, and yelled, "Can I borrow your guitar?"

"What!"

"Guitar-- g--" He did a strumming motion in the air, the other hand supporting an imaginary neck. "Guitar!"

"Oh, aye!"

Crowley nudged Aziraphale. "Follow me."

He took them up the narrow, crooked stairs to Reggie's bedroom, cool and empty, finding the beautiful Telecaster propped up in its rightful stand. Crowley strummed, then flung himself on Regie's bed, turning on the lamp and patting next to him for Aziraphale to sit too. "Don't be shy."

Very carefully, Aziraphale lowered himself down, and grimaced. "Are you sure it's okay?"

"I've known Reggie ages, it's fine," Crowley said. "Now, take this."

He handed the Telecaster onto Aziraphale's lap, who now looked utterly stunned. "Oh, I--"

"I'll teach you some chords. It won't sound all that right, since it should be plugged in and all, but this is just to get the fingering."

So Crowley went through, teaching him the D, G, and E chords; then A and F. He wasn't sure how long they stayed up there, but eventually, with a lot of guidance (Crowley had to admit the other boy didn't have much in the way of natural musical talent, so far as he could tell, anyway) Aziraphale got it, and Crowley revealed what he'd been teaching him.

"Okay, so we're going D to F, G to D, then D, A. Got it?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said confidently, clearly lying.

"Okay, so, D--" He sang softly, mortified but hiding it well, his voice pitched higher than the original, since he felt more comfortable in the high notes. He mimed the fingering as he went along. " _Pardon me, if I'm_ \- F - _sentimental_ , G-- no, G, like this-- yeah, that's it - _when we say good--_ D, then D again, _\--bye, don't be angry with me, should I cry--_ "

"That's _Elvis_!" Aziraphale exclaimed, wide eyes meeting Crowley's.

Crowley laughed, glad he had got it, because for a moment he was honestly pretty sure Aziraphale wouldn't pay enough attention to what was playing on the radio to know Elvis, even though this song was a good few years old by this point. Apparently this got through his dense shield of what he deemed worthy of attention. "Yeah, Aziraphale. You caught me. So, A on 'cry', got it?"

"Yes, yes."

" _Don't be angry with me, should I cry_." Azirphale was clearly trying, but his fingers got all mixed up, and then he sighed frustratedly and pressed his fingers into his palm. Obviously he didn't have calluses, and the strings were hurting him. That wouldn't do. "Here," Crowley said. "Give it to me."

Azirphale passed over the instrument gingerly, and Crowley set about singing the first verse, properly, this time. Embarrassed but pleased, he finished to Aziraphale giving him a delighted little round of applause, and he had to wonder if it was the ciders or if he was just... always like that.

"That was splendid!" Splendid, honestly. Who said things like _splendid_? What a nonce. "Who taught you it?"

"Taught myself," Crowley said. "Have I won you over to the guitar?"

"Oh, your wiles have quite won me over," Aziraphale replied, with a wiggle.

Obviously, they'd both been very aware the entire time how close they were sitting together, but when they stopped playing, it was really obvious. Crowley took the hand that wasn't supporting the guitar and rested it gently on Aziraphale's neck, then shifted it to his hot face. His face was remarkably smooth, no stubble or anything, with eyes that glittered a reflection from the lamp, and hair caught softly by it. Crowley caught a glance to the door, and it was the moment the both of them remembered the world outside the room.

Then Aziraphale jumped up, and his hands went to his chest like he was trying to smooth down an imaginary lapel. "Sorry, Crowley, but I'd best be off. My mother will be wondering where I am."

Had he been wrong? Probably not too wrong. If he had been, Aziraphale would've stopped him before the face touch. Crowley shrugged, disappointed, and said softly, "But you didn't get to dance."

"Maybe next time, then." Aziraphale was already halfway out the door, but he turned back and said, quickly, like it was all his effort to say it: "I wouldn't mind learning more of that old, ah, guitar."

"Oh. Oh! Oh, good, yes--"

"So I'll see you soon, then?"

"Yeah," Crowley said earnestly. "Soon. And, wait--"

Aziraphale paused, one hand on the doorframe, daring to glance back. "Yes?"

Crowley put on an overly disappointed voice and pulled a sad face. "You're not wearing Levi's."

"They're Marks and Spencer," he replied, mock-tetchy, unable to hide the slight smile that bloomed through all their play emotions. He hitched up his jeans and ran down his t-shirt primly.

Crowley shook his head, grinning too, and waved a hand. "Get outta here."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Crowley started showing up to Aziraphale's every few days, tired from work but determined to fit in time and get out of the house, but not spend money on petrol, teaching him guitar, to very little progress but many laughs. In the end, it was just hanging out, like with any other friends, except Aziraphale would sometimes read aloud, whatever novel he had his nose buried in, like his voice alone could get Crowley to pay attention to it.

He was right, but only for five minutes or so, before Crowley would end up falling asleep on his bed, being nudged awake shortly after with a soft face looking down on him, and Crowley wasn't sure what he did in a past life to deserve this, because it certainly wasn't anything he'd done recently.

"I don't know why you hang around that rocker lot, I really don't," Aziraphale said one evening. He was slouched in his desk chair.

"They're fun," Crowley said. "I dunno. They were the people I needed at the time." Aziraphale hummed: go on. "I met them... ugh, I dunno. Maybe I was fifteen, something like that, saw them round the cul-de-sac. And you know how my parents are. I think when you're about that age, you're starting to wonder, well, what is right that they told me? What should I ignore?"

"And school got lumped in with the latter, I suppose."

"Yeah, for good reason. What the hell do I need to know Latin for? Or maths! I want to know how things really work, not how they are in school." Crowley shrugged. "So I skived until they kicked me out. Then my mates say, 'get a bike, get a jacket, and you've got a place with us'. So even if I disagree with them on a lot of things, I can't just abandon them."

"Don't think of it as abandoning. More... a snake shedding its skin as it grows."

Crowley wanted to say: _I can't leave, because the hard-man reputation of the rockers is probably what stopped me getting singled out as... yeah._

"Nah. I'm fine for now," is what he did say.

"So you just plan to secretly hate all of them for as long as you live, then, hmm?" Aziraphale said coyly, in that delightfully bastardous way of his.

"Yeah, just about," Crowley said, shooting him a Devil-may-care grin. "Got nothing better to do."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

But then Aziraphale began preparing for university, having less and less time for them; and eventually, he left.

Crowley did cry, but not in front of him. No, they just exchanged brief hugs with sharp pats on the back, so _acceptable_ and _bland_ and not at all what either of them really wanted. Then, he went home, crawled into his bed, and didn't get up for work the next day.

Sue him. He was a teenager. He was allowed to be melodramatic.

And the years turned. A crowd threw bricks and bottles through a bar window in New York and kicked off an international debate; Crowley tried the whole sleeping around thing; two men landed on the moon; a bunch of gobshites signed a treaty to, for God's sake, _stop making more nuclear weapons_ ; Britain decimalised, and Crowley finished his apprenticeship, spending his days at the garage and his nights playing guitar and (if he was lucky) gigging.

He couldn't afford to get up to Oxford and Aziraphale didn't have the time to come down. They phoned each other, Crowley in his new flat with a beer, and Aziraphale in the noisy corridor of his student housing, talking until he got kicked off the line, or Crowley started nodding off. The truth of it was that they could go weeks without talking, and resume their conversation like the time never happened.

That was fine, though. Good friendships, Crowley thought, didn't need constant renewal like a book out from the library. They should be more like the cactus he kept on his window sill. Be hardy, grow slowly, and bask in the sun when it came.

 

* * *

 

 

"Where's your _jacket_ gone?" Aziraphale gasped.

"And hello to you, too," Crowley said, drawing him in for a quick hug before pulling away to do a once over, as if checking that he was still exactly like how he left him. "How's Oxford?"

"Fine, but-- where--"

"It's in my wardrobe, angel, no need to worry."

Angel. Aziraphale felt his eyes widen, and Crowley tried to pull a nonchalant expression. "Right-o." That wasn't enough of a response, obviously. "And what's all this? Are you a mod, now?"

"Mods and rockers are dead," Crowley said, like it was obvious, the silent where have you been? obvious. "Long live _glam rock_."

Aziraphale hadn't been notified, but it wasn't like he really paid attention to those types of things. He ran a thumb down the lapel where it met the buttons - on the left, not the right - then drew his hand back and glancing up. "This is a women's blazer. Do you, um, have a...?"

"Actually, I'm a homosexual," Crowley said boldly, and oh dear, was it suddenly very warm outside this pub, or was it just Aziraphale? It wasn't like it was news, but he hadn't exactly expected Crowley to just come out with it like _that_. He'd assumed it was something a little more... ineffable.

But it wouldn't do to be shocked and it wouldn't do to make his dear friend feel bad, so Aziraphale just beamed awkwardly and said, "Let's get a drink!"

Crowley paid for both their bottle of wine - the bartender looked at them funny, but didn't comment as he took their money - and took it over to one corner as he chatted excitedly about some fellow named Bowie, and Aziraphale marvelled at Crowley, everything about him. The way he moved in his new outfit, the hair that peeked over his collar, longer than he'd ever seen it; the slim cut of his black jacket and jeans, the smooth way he moved. Aziraphale was stuck in his ways, always had been, and fancied he always would be. He loved routine and he loved familiarity, but Crowley loved his trends, how some things would be there today, gone tomorrow.

Aziraphale stared at him once they'd gotten sat down and settled, and realised that to his friend, change was the same comfort that ambling down a road he'd walked hundreds of times was to Aziraphale.

"Are you going to get rid of the bike?"

"Oh, no," Crowley said, taking a sip of his wine. "She stays with me. But I've put the two-up seat back in, and put in a couple other heavier but better parts."

"Heavier parts?" Aziraphale said with a slight smile. "I never thought I'd see the day."

Crowley snorted. "Well, since I can afford them now, thought I might as well."

They talked about the bike for a little while longer, and Crowley tried as he often did to puraude Aziraphale to learn how to ride. The bottle of wine magically emptied itself, the pub got busier, and they ordered some strong drinks, then more. Aziraphale was drunk, which didn't happen often now he wasn't home. It wasn't that he didn't have friends at university, it was just that they weren't _Crowley_.

"Let me take you somewhere," Crowley slurred. "Please?"

Aziraphale blinked slowly. "Of course."

He let himself be dragged out of the comfortable warm pub into a cooler night that was heaven on his hot cheeks. Crowley bought them a bus ticket - "on me, on me" - and nudged when they should get off and walked them to... another pub.

"Why have we come here for another pub?" Aziraphale whined. "There's lots of good pubs in our ends."

"Not like this," Crowley said. "I promise you."

Crowley strode on, that swagger to his step suddenly more pronounced, giving the bouncers a nod like he owned the place, and Aziraphale followed, somewhat nervous.

It was dark and packed inside with flashing colourful lights and loud music he'd never heard before, and it took Aziraphale a moment, but then he realised that this place was full of _queers_.

Men dressed as women and women dressed as men and people who he couldn't tell about danced and danced with each other, men with men, women with women, and oh _God_ , touching, kissing, grinning.

Suddenly, Aziraphale wanted to cry. Because he'd known, for a long time now, and it was all very well and good knowing that Crowley was like him, and a few other odd ones out, and the few who made sly half-comments that left him wondering, but--

This was a packed room full of people. Who _all_ knew.

Crowley turned back to him, full of a massive grin that slipped. He practically swooped on Aziraphale. "Oh, angel, no--"

"I want to stay," he said firmly, having to yell over the disco music. Angel, angel, angel, where on earth had Crowley gotten that from? He loved it, though. "I'm just--" He gestured wildly.

"I know," Crowley said, excited again. "You don't realise that you're not the only one, do you? Not until you _see_ it."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Aziraphale came back from university with a shiny first class degree in English Literature, and decided to set up shop in Soho.

"My dad's giving me some money," he explained, looking all pleased and glittery eyed in front of the empty shop front, a massive FOR RENT sign plastered in the window. "I want to open a bookshop."

Crowley nodded, noting Aziraphale’s excitement fondly, and turned to him, deadpan. "I'm all for it, but you've got to promise me one thing."

Aziraphale nodded. "Anything, my dear."

"You've got to let me sleep here after a night at Billy's."

His expression went-- odd. "Who on Earth is _Billy_?"

"Angel-- it's a nightclub on Dean Street, you nonce."

"Oh," Aziraphale, laughing at himself. "Then, yes, of course. Anything for you."

Crowley was sure you couldn't just say things like that, but obviously, he'd gone and said it anyway.

That mutual staring again, which they broke in the same moment, eyes to the ground, because both of them knew that they'd read too much into the gaze of the other.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Crowley stumbled in, his guitar over his shoulder and glitter flaking onto his palm when he rubbed his face.

He put his hand down on a stack of books to steady himself, then said, "Noooo. No glitter on the books."

"Crowley?"

Crowley jumped and pushed his sunglasses up to the top of his head, squinting. It was black in the bookshop, aside from a dim light cutting from the backroom. "Zira! Why are you here?"

"I live here now," Aziraphale replied, "I told you that."

"Yes, you did. Flat above. I remember. Mmhm."

"Good gig?"

"Oh, it was alright," Crowley said, voice high, shrugging modestly. "Just, uh-- time of my life, actually."

Finally, Aziraphale made himself apparent, rounding the corner with a book tucked under his side. He didn't usually go to Crowley's gigs, but that was fine, honestly. It wasn't really his scene, and Crowley didn't like the man for his stellar taste in music. "I'm very glad."

"Yup. So. You. Just reading?"

"Yes. I wanted to get through the dialogues before--"

"Six years ago," Crowley cut in, before he could help it, before his brain shut him up. "That party."

Aziraphale straightened up minutely, and put the book on the side. "I remember."

"We... we couldn't've then, could we?"

Crowley wasn't sober enough to make it make sense, but Aziraphale knew what he meant, and replied softly, "No. No, I don't think so."

He nodded hard enough to make his sunglasses slide down to his nose, at which point, he took them off and tucked them clumsily into his jacket pocket. "Good, that's-- fine. Good. And now?"

Aziraphale was wide-eyed and still on the other side of the room and the world was trying to slide out from Crowley's feet, and he could hear people outside, drunk people passing, making shadows on the bookshelves while they laughed. The light shifted on Aziraphale, his face passing into shadow for a few moments, before it plunged back into yellow light, eyes big and black-looking, as if they were all pupil and no iris. He looked brave, but in a way that shone through a deep-seated fear-- of the unknown, of the what-comes-next, of the people whose bodies threw them into darkness.

"Well," Aziraphale replied evenly, "I don't think things are going to get better for a long while, do you?"

"Slow progress is still progress." Congratulations, Crowley, that might've actually just about made sense. "And it's not about that. Us versus all'a them. Like old times."

Aziraphale nodded, and was still on the other side of the room. Crowley took a step forward, and blinked.

"I'm very drunk."

"I know," Aziraphale replied, far too softly.

Crowley nodded, suddenly feeling not-- ashamed, but aware of the state he was in.

"Go to my flat, take the bed. I'll be up soon."

Crowley did as he was told, leaning heavily on the wall on his way up the staircase, downing a pint of water on his way to Aziraphale's bedroom. He kicked off his shoes and wiped his glittery hands best he could on his Levi's before stripping them off and flinging them dramatically across the room for all the hassle they caused.

The dim incandescent bulb from the hallway went dark, and Crowley opened an eye. He could only see Aziraphale for the golden brightness of his hair, the casting of light over his shoulders. Faceless.

Crowley closed his eyes and muttered, "Come here, angel," because he didn't want to see the results of his words.

The door creaked shut, and Crowley's heart beat wildly in his chest, but then the bed dipped, and he turned around and flung himself across the warmth, so glad to have it.

"You're cold," Aziraphale said, with a big shiver.

"Im'a reptile." Aziraphale huffed a laugh, but was still-- uncomfortable. He could feel it as well as he could feel the sheets or the alcohol or his limbs. "There's no one else here, Aziraphale. It's just us. No one's watching." Crowley nudged his nose up under his jaw, his words far braver than he felt. "And we're alright."

Crowley opened his eyes and drew back to see Aziraphale already looking at him. They gravitated together, two celestial bodies in a tighter and tighter orbit, until they crashed together softly. Crowley, for all his drunkenness, swore could feel the moment searing itself into his memory, a nook of his brain now labeled: _THAT TIME AZIRAPHALE AND I KISSED AND FOR A MOMENT THE WORLD MADE SENSE._

Crowley kissed down Aziraphale's cheek and jaw and neck. "Night, Aziraphale," he mumbled into skin.

The arm around his shoulders squeezed him tighter for a moment. "Goodnight, my dear."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! My tumblr at Sleepymoritz.


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